


little thief

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [58]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Mutual Pining, mentions of Passionate Exchanges of the epistolary type
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: or: the one where Hermann is dragged along to a party by his colleagues; shenanigans ensue.Shenanigans that lead to Newt waking up without his microwave anywhere to be found.





	little thief

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "I don't remember the exact prompt but you know the drunkenly stealing the microwave one? Have you done that yet? It sounds hilarious!!"  
> prompt: “You had a party and I got really drunk and stole your microwave, so now I’m at your place and your super hungover so here, I made breakfast?”

“Oh,” Newt moans, “oh,  _ow_.”

The light burns his eyes, and he squeezes them tightly. “ _Ow,_ ” he hisses again, “oh  _fuck_ , ow.” He drags the covers up further, hiding beneath them, and tries to not cry at the pounding headache.

Finally, he drags himself out of bed, blearily groping around for his glasses, the room wobbling around him. The surroundings finally slide into focus as he slips on his glasses, though his head still pounds and he’s slightly shaky as he stands, wincing every so often as he passes through patches of brightness.

Thankfully, though, he’s coordinated enough to pull together a decent meal—

—and apparently that’s not happening, because where his microwave should be, the counter is bare, a slightly dusty patch of counter the only indication that there was anything there.

“What,” Newt says, croakily, staring at the spot, dumbfounded, and then, again, with more feeling, “ _what. The fuck._ ”

He squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a few calming breaths. Maybe it’s just…off to the side a bit, and it’ll be there when he opens his eyes. The universe, in stubborn defiance of his wishes, refuses to materialise his microwave.

Newt huffs at it, glares harder. The spot remains microwave-less.

He throws up his hands, then yelps as the motion makes him overbalance, practically toppling onto the floor face-first, only just catching himself, hand clutching tightly at the lip of the counter. “Ugh,” he groans, sliding to the cold floor.

A bit later, once he’s slightly more cognizant—and has drunk a cup of coffee—he finds his phone and dials Hermann. The phone only rings a few times before, curtly, the other snaps, “What on  _earth_ is so important that you must disturb me at this hour?”

Newt grins at Hermann’s voice. “Maybe I just wanna say good morning,” he says, “unless that’s a felony now.”

Hermann sighs, but it’s softer. “Good morning, Newton,” he says. “But really, what is it? You never call before noon unless something terrible has happened.”

Okay, fair, but, still. “Alright, alright,” Newt says, “you got me. Ugh. I just need someone to whine to. I think someone stole my microwave, dude.”

There’s a silence, and then, voice oddly strangled, Hermann says, “…what?”

“Yeah, I know, right!” Newt exclaims, “I mean, who the hell steals a  _microwave?_ ” He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Well, I guess that’s what I get for agreeing to host a party. But  _still_. What sort of person steals a microwave?”

There’s another, longer silence, and Hermann says, very slowly, “Newton, you know that I’m in Boston for a short while, yes?”

Newt blinks despite the fact that Hermann can’t see the motion. “…yeah?” he asks, “why? Is this about meeting up? Because I would totally be down for that, but I thought you said we had a scheduling conflict—”

“Well,” Hermann says, “well. One of the events I was to attend was cancelled. And a colleague may or may not have roped me into…” he pauses, and Newt gets the impression that he’s casting a sheepish look at the ground. “Into coming with them to a party,” he continues, “and given that I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and a microwave on my kitchen floor I have no recollection of purchasing, I think it’s fair to say we now know two things: whose party I attended last night, and who…stole your microwave.”

Neither of them speak for a moment, and then Newt says, in an echo of his earlier words, “What. The.  _Fuck_.”

Hermann sighs. “I do apologise,” he says, “however, you’ll be pleased to hear that it has suffered no damage and, having begged off of my obligations for the day, if it is convenient for you, we can finally meet face-to-face, if solely for the purpose of returning your microwave to you.”

“Ugh,” Newt groans, “you know what, you’re lucky I like you.”

“I suppose I am,” Hermann replies, and Newt imagines that he’s smiling slightly. “I do, however, need your address,” he says.

“Uh,” Newt starts, “dude, no, we can meet up—”

“Absolutely  _not_ ,” Hermann cuts him off, “you sound—pardon my saying so— _awful_ , Newton. Please, just give me your address and I shall return it to you.”

Newt sighs. “Oh, alright,” he grumbles.

Forty-odd minutes later, there’s a knock on his door. “It’s unlocked!” Newt calls from where he’s laying on the couch, and winces at the volume.

The door creaks slightly as it opens, and there’s the sound of footsteps—muffled slightly by the carpeting.

“Newton?” It’s Hermann’s voice, unadulterated by the static of a poor connection, and Newt think,  _oh, sweet_. “Er. Where should I put the microwave?”

“Eh,” croaks Newt, and attempts to wave his hand, only for it to flop down and hang limply over the side of the couch. “Just…put it on the floor or something.”

“If that’s what you wish,” Hermann says, doubtfully. There’s a silence, a sigh, and then a thump. From his periphery, Newt can see a pair of slacks and the bottom part of a cane. “Er. Well,” Hermann says, and it’s in that awkward moment that Newt realises that Hermann has seen  _him_ , but  _Newt_ hasn’t seen  _Hermann_.

With a great amount of effort, Newt rolls over so that he can take in the view. “Hermann?” he asks, momentarily stunned. The other—tall, lanky, his clothes slightly oversized, haircut simply  _atrocious_ —shifts nervously. 

“I, ah, brought you something to eat,” Hermann says, not meeting his gaze, and gestures to the collapsable shopping-cart at his side. There’s a box in it—“Take-out,” Hermann clarifies, “that’s why it took me so long.”

Newt grins. “Oh, man,” he says, “you’re like, the best.”

Hermann’s lips pull into a grin. “I’ll go get a fork,” he says.


End file.
